


Waiting for the Dust to Settle

by servantofclio



Series: Sewers to Stars [8]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 00:17:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6447826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/servantofclio/pseuds/servantofclio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the Battle of the Citadel, Shepard isn't expecting the councilors to put her on the spot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting for the Dust to Settle

There are still motes of dust hanging in the air of the Council Chamber. For some reason, they’re having meetings in these tower chambers, even though the platforms were shattered and there’s a kinetic barrier over the hole in the roof. There’s also a team of workers down in the gardens cleaning up the scorch marks and rubble and charred cybernetic wreckage left over from Shepard’s battle with Saren. Sovereign. Whatever he was, just then. The workers are mostly turians and asari, but there’s a couple of krogan among them. 

A week ago, krogan weren’t allowed on the Presidium at all, and now look. 

Keepers could do the clean-up faster, but the Keepers seem to have decided that the tower isn’t their priority. They’ve been clearing up larger debris from the Presidium and the Wards, and periodically the power goes back on, and everyone assumes it must be them. It makes Shepard think better of them, even knowing what she knows now. 

All of these details are irrelevancies, Shepard supposes, but she can’t fix her mind on the talking. The councilors’ voices rise and fall like waves: the asari smooth and flowing, the salarian a pitter-patter of rapid talk, the turian less frequent but resonant, almost soothing. 

Udina started out sharp, abrupt, stentorian, but as the hours wear on, he’s grown to match them. Smooth and calming, could be purring. His face changes little, but from the sound of his voice, Shepard suspects they’re getting most of what he’s ever wanted. Resources. Support. Respect. A seat on the council. 

She doesn’t trust this, and she knows the practicalities elude her. Trade concessions, office space, numbers of warships, banking systems. Shepard plucks at the edge of her sling, absently notes the twinge of fused bone, and watches the councilors’ hands. The asari councilor has a perfect manicure, moonstone-pale and translucent. Light shimmers on her nails every time she moves her hands to emphasize a point. Her blue eyes shoot to Shepard every so often, and Shepard wonders why. Wonders why she’s here at all. She wonders just how old the asari councilor is, whether she did her time as a commando in her maiden years. Did those elegant, manicured hands ever hold a rifle, or has she spent her life in chambers like this one? 

Shepard grew up on the streets. She’s a child of gritty, overpopulated cities, where she learned about blood and sweat and what it takes to survive. She cuts her nails herself, and keeps them blunt and short and unpolished. 

The salarian councilor’s hands skitter, fingers long and alien, or curl up tight in his voluminous sleeves. He’s probably younger than Shepard is herself. Knowing salarians, he was probably bred and raised for this position from the first. A machine on the table periodically mists water in his direction, to compensate for the dust in the air. He talks to Udina, mostly. The two of them seem to get along. 

The turian councilor speaks the least. His gloved hands are either folded, or lying relaxed on the table in front of him. Shepard’s not good at gauging turians’ ages, but she’d bet he’s middle-aged, in his sixties or so, not unlike Udina. She’s sure this councilor, at least, has spent time with a rifle in his hands. All turians do their time in the military, right. He sits upright and his face betrays nothing, but when his green eyes shoot toward her, she thinks they’ve come to an accord. He may not like her, but he respects her. 

Udina gets called away for something or other, and Shepard expects a recess. She leans back in her chair as the councilors pass datapads back and forth and exchange glances. Then the asari councilor leans forward and says, in her smooth, flowing voice, “Commander.” 

Shepard blinks and refocuses with an effort. “Yes, councilor?” 

“We’d like to get your recommendation for who should assume the place of humanity’s first councilor. As you know, it’s a great honor.” 

“And a momentous step for your species,” adds the salarian. 

Shepard opens her mouth and shuts it before she can say _why are you asking ME?_ She has the sudden sinking feeling that this dusty, soaring chamber is a minefield after all. “I’d assumed it would be Ambassador Udina,” she says cautiously. 

“The ambassador has certainly served humanity long and faithfully,” says the asari. She doesn’t blink often enough. “Would that be your recommendation?” 

Shepard’s eyes shift toward the empty seats on her side of the table. Anderson’s stepped away, too, after spending the day pushing the need for defense whenever possible. 

It’s the Reapers that really matter. All the rest of this is maneuvering. 

Well. Shepard knows about maneuvers, too, and when to take her shot. 

“I’d recommend Captain Anderson,” she said. “He’s got a breadth of experience no one can match.” 

The salarian blinks. The asari still doesn’t. She sits back in her seat and says, “I see. Thank you for your recommendation, Commander Shepard.” 

Shepard nods. Udina returns to the table a moment later. The conversation resumes as if nothing had happened. Shepard sits back and watches the dust drifting through the tower’s rarefied air.


End file.
